


merry-go-round people, little white lies

by HumiliatedRook



Category: The Queen's Gambit (TV)
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/F, F/M, Mythology References, Prompt Fill, Rating Change, a drabble series constrained by word limit, jk I got it all to work out this series is a go for launch, not by pairing and lengths as multiples of 100, way more b2 than i thought there would be sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-25 13:20:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30089694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumiliatedRook/pseuds/HumiliatedRook
Summary: Don't let the heartbreak hit you on a Saturday night.—My work for Seven Days of Drabbles.
Relationships: Benny Watts/Hat, Beth Harmon & Jolene, Beth Harmon/Benny Watts, Cleo/Benny Watts, Cleo/Beth Harmon, Cleo/D.L. Townes, Harry Beltik/Beth Harmon, Jolene/Mike (The Queen's Gambit)
Comments: 53
Kudos: 54
Collections: TQG Drabble/Fanworks Prompts - Seven Days of Drabbles





	1. racing shadows under moonlight

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [HumiliatedRook](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumiliatedRook/pseuds/HumiliatedRook) in the [TQG_fanworks_prompts](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TQG_fanworks_prompts) collection. 
  * In response to a prompt by [HumiliatedRook](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumiliatedRook/pseuds/HumiliatedRook) in the [TQG_fanworks_prompts](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TQG_fanworks_prompts) collection. 
  * In response to a prompt by [HumiliatedRook](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumiliatedRook/pseuds/HumiliatedRook) in the [TQG_fanworks_prompts](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TQG_fanworks_prompts) collection. 
  * In response to a prompt by [HumiliatedRook](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumiliatedRook/pseuds/HumiliatedRook) in the [TQG_fanworks_prompts](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TQG_fanworks_prompts) collection. 
  * In response to a prompt by [HumiliatedRook](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumiliatedRook/pseuds/HumiliatedRook) in the [TQG_fanworks_prompts](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TQG_fanworks_prompts) collection. 
  * In response to a prompt by [HumiliatedRook](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumiliatedRook/pseuds/HumiliatedRook) in the [TQG_fanworks_prompts](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TQG_fanworks_prompts) collection. 
  * In response to a prompt by [HumiliatedRook](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumiliatedRook/pseuds/HumiliatedRook) in the [TQG_fanworks_prompts](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TQG_fanworks_prompts) collection. 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: fairytale
> 
> beth/benny
> 
> 299 words

Benny sees Beth as Minerva incarnate, brain, fingers, and the tips of her hair glowing with unquenchable fire, intelligent, warlike. Her eyes glint like Aegis, the head of a Gorgon turning opponents to stone. For her, chess is a chaotic battle, an art, her whole universe. 

But when she stretches awake at daybreak, she loses her edge, softening into some sort of ingénue. With her scarlet hair a gnarled mess, she could be Red Riding Hood, carved to life from the pages of the Brothers Grimm. Sleepily, she yawns, the contrast piping of her pajamas snaking from her shoulders to her feet, a winding path through the woods of her body. 

Beth fancies Benny an Apollo, witty, bright and deadly, blinding if you fly too close. Always, he falls asleep just after sunset and wakes by sunrise. When Beth coaxes him to tournaments sans hat, his hair catches the light of the room, fracturing into colors she can’t name but finds mesmerizing. While Beth views chess as an art, Benny has chess down to a science, beauty in the theory and numbers and controlled experiments. He talks chess like the whole sky is just entirely black and white squares.

But when he turns his rakish grin to her over morning coffee, Beth sees the quiet adoration of the Tin Soldier, steadfast and clever and scrappy, battered from being thrust into adulthood at an age much too young but a survivor nonetheless. A romantic (but he’d never admit it). She can’t help but smile back.

One would think all that power concentrated in one room would inevitably cause a supernova of seismic proportions. Instead, in a small dingy apartment in New York City, they scrape together the pieces of a fairytale for themselves, crossing their fingers it’s happily ever after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title: Miss Atomic Bomb, by The Killers


	2. trade love for one night, two pills, and a red wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: shadow
> 
> beth/cleo with a hint of benny/cleo
> 
> 256 words

From the moment they meet, Cleo's shadow feels inescapable: a queen, a temptation, a mistake, a memory.

In her gold shell, thick eyeliner, bold jewelry, Cleo could be a pharaoh. How regally she sits, fingers wound around a cigarette and wine glass, temptations flitting in Beth's periphery. When she deigns to clap her approval, Beth blushes.

Even after she departs, Cleo lingers, an imprint in Benny's bed. One night, Benny slips; the name that falls from his lips tells Beth that the woman he prefers is not the woman under him.  
  
Beth thought she'd find relief in the shade of Cleo’s presence in Paris, perhaps even a chip of her majesty. But all she finds is the seduction of forbidden fruit, a Pandora's box she tries to open just a crack but is subsumed by instead.

At next day's game and each one thereafter, Beth’s eyes seek Cleo’s in the crowd, even if she knows they're not there. The shame of the memory burns like pastis down her throat, but so does the knot of desire in her stomach. Cleo comes and goes as she pleases, without even letting Beth's eyes adjust.

She haunts Beth more than any person, pill, or drink. Cleo's shadow feels inescapable.

Too long it takes Beth to realize Cleo's sheen lacks luster, color, texture, a lamp without a bulb, and the shadow dims. Cleo had warned her when they first met: _there is no mystery to a vacant lot_. And just like any vacant lot, Beth can leave it behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title: sex money feelings die by Lykke Li
> 
> btw, cleo isn't a character so much as she is beth's id
> 
> cheers to [dialectica-esoterica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dialectica_esoterica/pseuds/dialectica_esoterica) and [thisismetrying](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisismetrying/pseuds/thisismetrying), always!


	3. good angels, with bad wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: battlefield
> 
> benny/hat with a hint of beth/benny
> 
> 190 words

On his first official cover as an adult (not a child) on Chess Review, they hail him as the greatest American player since Morphy. They slap his head into an Akubra and call him the Lewis and Clark of chess, mapping openings and endgames for glory and sales. Some mathematician roughly estimates the number of possible games is 10 to the 123rd power, and they positively froth that the U.S. Champion can command that potential with his pinky finger.

He learns to conceal the distaste twisting at his mouth, for every game is not a territory to be colonized but a battlefield to be conquered. Chess is not cold and clinical like textbooks, but dynamic like poetry, visceral as an epic, all clashing steel and calculated sacrifices. He writes a bestseller that he'll never read, all milquetoast openings and tiresome tactics.

He tosses that damned double denim outfit out the second the photo shoot ends; this isn't some Western. He pulls on his father's leather jacket and swears to never employ a stylist again.

But the Akubra? He looks none-too-shabby, even quite fine, in his Akubra.

(No redhead, however pretty, can convince him otherwise.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title: Never Get You Right, by Brandon Flowers
> 
> [dialectica_esoterica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dialectica_esoterica/pseuds/dialectica_esoterica) is an angel
> 
> thank you to [runningscissors](%E2%80%9C) for informing me it’s an Akubra, not a cowboy hat!!
> 
> i was so tempted to use the phrase "godless Western" but that's probably overdoing it


	4. looks something like sistine oil and fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: battlefield (again)
> 
> beth/benny
> 
> 285 words

If Ulysses were born today, he'd wear a black floral kimono with only chest beneath and jeans below, and that's all he'd need to raze a city, rubble to ashes. 

Blessed by Caïssa herself, he would be a king, wickedly cunning, sharp as the dagger at his belt, with cheekbones that could cut diamond. His stratagems would drench the board in the blood of foes like a battlefield.

He'd be a hero.

But every hero must have a tragic flaw, their Achilles' heel. And if Benny is being honest, he's not so much Ulysses as much as he is Sleipnir, too many legs with too many heels.

There's his overreliance on knights in the endgame. 

And her smile, quiet, awed, and shy, as her small-town eyes drank in the New York City skyline for the first time.

And his claustrophobic apartment, less than 15 paces from the nearest person.

And his inability to refuse a bet.

And her piercing glower against her resplendent clothes across the board.

And the poker games.

And her hair every shade of red, a matted, sweaty mess from the roaming of his fingers.

And the parking tickets.

And her roseate cheeks when she's gasping for breath, his mouth at her collarbone.

And the damn broken headlight on the Beetle.

And her moans as she's bent over the table in the kitchen while he tightens his grip on her from behind.

And his aversion for clothes with patterns (and colors).

And the first time she says "I love you," snatched from her throat against her will by his tongue on her clit (he'll never forget it).

He could change, but instead he digs his many, many heels into the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title: Diggin' Up the Heart by Brandon Flowers
> 
> this is also partially inspired by Taylor Swift's Cruel Summer, because the bridge is about screaming "i love you" while receiving oral sex
> 
> thank you to [dialectica_esoterica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dialectica_esoterica/pseuds/dialectica_esoterica) and [thisismetrying](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisismetrying/pseuds/thisismetrying) for the emotional support when i try to write anything smut


	5. keep me, keep me on fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: poetry
> 
> cleo/townes
> 
> 325 words
> 
> unofficially dedicated to [marmotts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marmotts/pseuds/marmotts) and her mom for suggesting the pairing <3

It’s a tale as old as time: a bar, a drink, and a hotel bed.

She’s in Vienna for a gig with an up-and-coming fashion house; he for a journalism-free vacation.

A bar with a piano, luminaries reading their magic into the microphones, and aspiring writers pouring their hearts into poetry and gin. He can’t help whipping out his notepad to scribble down the best lines of the night. She has a soft spot for the music here, but tonight she can’t help trying to catch his eye and ultimately sends him a drink.

A drink or maybe four. When they finally lock eyes, any lesser mortals caught between them would have been seared. This must’ve been like when Gaea met Ouranos, two cosmic beings and kindred spirits. Similar secrets whispered by voices sweet and husky from too many cigarettes; raven-black hair; equal heights; shared affinities for turtlenecks and smolders that could ignite gasoline. She avoids her last name, and he refuses to say his first. Together, they are giants among men.

They chat on once-ornate stools peeling from cozy charm and stories that have long since slipped from memory, about loves won and lost and favorite poets.

When they tumble into that hotel bed, it’s a mutual seduction and a total accident, the handsome devil and the femme fatale. Goodbye, crisp white sheets and neatly fluffed pillows.

In the morning, he asks, “Can I take you out to dinner?” It’s a riddle and a question and an offer all at once. She chooses the restaurant and makes him split the check.

She sits for his camera, and they debate the clothes, the pose, the setting, the color, the texture. For the first time she feels whole (not empty), he feels safe (not scared). She invites him to her apartment in the Marais; he invites her to Kentucky. They promise to write.

Townes and Cleo coexist for a halcyon week in Vienna, peace at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title: Keep Me, by Novo Amor.
> 
> i broke the word limit but i'm short on time today :(
> 
> i'm cool letting these two bond over art and poetry and bisexuality


	6. standing at the water's edge waiting for the fog to clear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: firefly
> 
> jolene/mike ft. beth as a disaster at being an adult
> 
> 287 words (edited to be 567 words)
> 
> unofficially dedicated to [NRGBurst](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NRGburst/pseuds/NRGburst), since this pairing is her [brainchild](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28051005?view_full_work=true)

Rick’s voice spins silk out of secrets and shadows, that blend of truth and omissions that entice his clients and the jury. Rhetoric is a lawyer’s bread and butter; justice a dessert. Jolene is a damn good lawyer, and she can tell, even respect, a sophist such as he. But she sees only dollar signs where his heart should be.

Mike is a far cry from an orator or a barrister, with his quiet speaking manner, unassuming polos, and wispy curls for hair. He doesn’t try (couldn’t even if he wanted) to command the attention of a courtroom. Still, Jolene’s nights inexplicably brighten whenever he calls. When the calls become visits, Jolene can only _glow_.

Beth laughs when Jolene tells her such: “So, Rick is a spider with pincers, which makes Mike, what? Some kind of firefly?” Jolene rolls her eyes and grins, “Stick to chess, not metaphors, Michelangelo.”

Mike is a respectable chess player, but his heart bleeds gold -- he loves the world of chess, and the chess world loves him. While Beth only ever talks the strategies, their names and pros and cons until knights gallop in circles around Jolene's head, Mike talks the _people_ : his fellow organizers, the sponsors, the players.

He tells stories of their childhoods, their marketing strategies, their secrets, and even their talks of diversity and inclusivity on which Jolene offers strong opinions and suggestions. He evokes an orphan from Methuen, who would welcome every new girl by asking “What's the last thing they said to you before they died?" and spark some life back into their eyes over barely palatable dinners and good stories. When he rambles about courting sponsors and recruiting attendees, he reminds Jolene of _her_ , smooth-talking her way into an Atlanta legal firm with fancy words and clothes.

During one of his visits, he even starts to explain the game to her, and Jolene is surprised that she can follow along. He laughs and tells her he used to whisper commentary to Beth's adoptive mom while Beth played, and so he is used to "layperson chess," as he calls it. He explains it so well, with such sparkle in his eyes, Jolene thinks she might even someday agree to play a game with him.

For his part, he does his best to keep up with Jolene's latest cases, frames every edition of the law review that makes her editor, refills her water during the latest nights, celebrates every job offer she receives, and proposes the day the letters "J.D." are officially affixed to the end of her name.

Mike and Jolene’s Atlanta wedding is officiated by Harry, who among many other things is an ordained minister. Beth pulls herself together to be a maid of honor. While Jolene chooses the flowers, Beth checks out a book on weddings (and finds a new guilty pleasure in romance comics with names like _Heart Throbs_ and _Girls’ Love Stories_ ).

At the eleventh hour, Beth presents a clumsily wrapped box of tokens that _just_ miss the point but conjure tears from Jolene nonetheless. For “something old,” a battered copy of _Modern Chess Openings_ _;_ for “something new,” the latest edition of _Modern Chess Openings_ (“How do you expect me to wear a book?”); for “something borrowed,” a comb (“I gave you this comb a month ago?” “Yeah, I _borrowed_ it from you”); and for “something blue,” a lapis lazuli firefly brooch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title: The Way It's Always Been, by Brandon Flowers
> 
> thank you to the glorious [thisismetrying](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisismetrying/pseuds/thisismetrying)
> 
> i did not know this wedding adage until i watched doctor who


	7. sweet dreams and flying machines in pieces on the ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: ice cube
> 
> beth/benny
> 
> 649 words (i needed more words)

Benny glares like daggers and a butane torch, blowing glass, melting iron at 2500 degrees Fahrenheit. He slips into rooms like a salamander but rages like a manticore, malevolent. Like an afrit he is on the board, prowling his prey from the shadows most onlookers dismiss without a second thought.

But Beth isn’t glass or iron; she's dry ice, solid carbon dioxide sublimated under atmospheric pressure. Her lucky opponents merely freeze under her yuki-onna gaze, shaking their bodies back to life when she glides from the wreckage. The others can only watch their skin flake off, sinew and bones exposed.

* * *

They can only ever seem to discuss the heavy topic of _each other_ with hands in each other's hair and lungs exchanging each other's air, under the cover of long nightfall and twinkling stars.

“Cowardice,” he licks flames that course from between her legs to the ends of her fingertips. “You're afraid to be seen with me.”

“Courage,” she retorts. “You wouldn’t understand.” Her spit is icicle shards, piercing his tongue but unable to articulate things like _reputations_ and _sponsorships_ and _gossip_.

* * *

In a hotel bed, this time in Barcelona, their sin carries through the night, even if their voices don't.

"Vanity," she tattoos her accusation into his brow with a brutal kiss, her tone crushing ice cubes between her teeth, "You want an accessory on your arm."

"Truth,” he bites back, chasing and swallowing her words, lava and smoke and hands choking her throat, “I want the truth, if you can find it.”

* * *

“Greed,” he weaves into her jaw, embers and ashes in his eyes as her tongue tastes every inch of his erection. “You'd choose money over me.”

“Dignity,” she manages with a pause and a sigh, like a wolf starving against the snow, gloss slipping from its fur. "As if you ever had to struggle for it."

* * *

He shows up to the next tournament with a blonde on his arm but two drinks later finds himself pressed against a redhead in the gelid Seattle air.

"Dishonesty," she hisses and brands into his skin, brick ripping the back of her dress. She's not sure whether she means the woman sleeping in his bed a block away or her. 

"Dishonesty," he prints the word right back onto her neck, magma bubbling beneath his skin. "You’d rather live a lie than confess a difficult truth."

* * *

When a reporter discovers them together in a college corridor, controversy seals their fates. He exiles himself from the public eye, watches them tear his throne asunder. She clings to her crown, her silhouette still that of a queen's.

* * *

In Munich, bone-tired from the day but not ready to sleep, they stand before each other in his doorway.

"Shame," he confronts her, a dragon struggling into a knight's armor, his arms crossed but ego laid down at his feet. "Everyone knows. You don't need to hide."

"Humility," she says, a crumbling glacier. They don't need the moon to illuminate the lie.

"Pride," he contradicts her. "You could be seen with me. But you won't."

“Lust,” she issues the worst blow yet. “That’s all this ever was.”

In the darkness, she can see his mouth open, but he cannot summon a response.

She storms out and slams the door, where she lights a cigarette that scalds like his lips. 

He takes a long swig from a glass that’s more ice than water. 

They don’t speak for two hours, but they trace the marks they've left on each other, their history of every bruise and bite interwoven like lace.

They exit their rooms at the same time and meet each other halfway.

"I give up," he whispers, hat and heart in hand.

"I give in," she says, to his surprise.

"You're sorry?"

"You are, too."

She grasps his hand, he holds the small of her back, and they let the sun rise in the east.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title: Fire and Rain, by James Taylor
> 
> this was supposed to be an examination of Aristotelian virtue theory, but I guess I’ll have to save my angsty “vice of deficiency” vs “vice of excess” vs “virtue of moderation” poetry for another day
> 
> let me know if this is crazy contrived or makes no sense
> 
> thank you again and again, [dialectica_esoterica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dialectica_esoterica/pseuds/dialectica_esoterica)


	8. you were drivin' the getaway car

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: electric
> 
> beth/harry and anti-beth/tim
> 
> 880 words (what word limit?)
> 
> unofficially dedicated to fellow harry beltik defender [marmotts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marmotts/pseuds/marmotts), thank you for helping me figure out the beats <3

Harry hums with the energy of an electric circuit, sparking with life as his hand pulls her behind the bleachers of a high school gymnasium. He doesn’t push her up against the wall once they turn the corner, stealing her breath with a kiss, like she almost wishes she would.

It’s the Kentucky State Championship. Beth still reigns as three-year champion, with Harry a close second. Alma has always liked Harry. For the last two years, she’s taken the two out to lunch and keeps praising his _manners_ and his _clothes_. For the last two years, she’s also commented that his teeth could be more respectable. Beth isn’t the best with reading emotions, but she sees the twinge in Harry’s eye each time she does. Still, Alma passes him their phone number if he’s ever in Lexington.

But November 1965 is different. This year, instead of Alma by her side, she shows up with a man at her heels (not holding her hand), his wrinkled dress shirt over a gray t-shirt, his mustache a few hairs too messy to be “well-groomed,” and his irises too vacant to really understand what’s going on. Beth thinks he’s someone that looks better in the dark, but when he asked her to be his girlfriend, she said, “Why not?”

The _whys_ turn out to be their own 95 Theses. His greasy hair, his unkempt mustache, his untidy room, his obnoxious friends, his abysmal Russian grades that he shows no interest in improving, his habit of getting high right before sex (affecting his performance, though he claims it doesn’t), the fact he thinks Dostoevsky makes him “well-read.” Beth tolerates his long-winded rambling about philosophers he acts shocked she hasn’t heard of before. But Tim doesn’t leave, and neither does she. Alma turns up her nose at having more than one lunch with him but gifts Beth a freedom to experiment that Alma had never had - something about learning what she likes, of exploring the world out there before she has to tie herself down. Dating Tim is like dating a homunculus; he’ll do what she asks, like attend the Kentucky State Championship, but it’s not like he’s good for more than that.

That’s why when innocent, naïve Harry, who had just missed Tim slumping in with Beth and then slinking off to smoke, casually asks her why Alma isn’t there ( _oh, it’s her proclivity for viruses, again_ ), then casually asks if she has any plans for tonight, Beth says no. 

And that’s how Beth finds herself telling Tim he can go back home, and that’s how she finds herself hiding out in the school auditorium of Henry Clay High School with Harry Beltik after hours. They take a walk and talk about chess and his childhood and his college applications (Harry mostly talks, Beth mostly listens, but that’s okay with both of them). Beth isn’t sure what he’s going for here, but it’s pleasant and a hell of a lot more interesting than the weekend parties at Tim’s frat house. Beth feels a warm glow, a match lit, a candle flame in the dark hallowed hallways. Then, he asks if she’s up for a midnight drive - he tells her the history of the landmarks around Lexington, Kentucky. She asks if they can drive all night. He winks.

After the second day of playing, he takes her to a movie theater, where they watch _Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?_ and stay afterward for _El Dorado_. He holds the car door open for her and offers to pay for her ticket. Although they sit with their elbows touching, he doesn’t kiss her. To herself, she wonders why, but she still smiles when their shoulders brush. To herself, she thinks, Alma would be pleased.

Every night he drops her off at home, she sneaks back inside, where Alma has fallen asleep watching her television shows again. She stares at the ripped canopy, the ceiling. She hasn’t called Tim in days. She’s never around to know if he’s called her. She searches for words to describe Harry: _kind_ , _chivalrous_ , _charming_ , some kind of All-American prince in blue jeans and a chestnut bomber jacket. He’s not a fairytale prince or a knight in shining armor or a swashbuckling rogue, but he’s better than anything she’s had before. Beth prefers Tim with the lights turned off, but she finds she doesn’t even mind Harry’s teeth.

The day she keeps her title, she tells Tim it’s over. Tim, like a footnote, exits the auditorium with a shrug. She gives Harry a warm hug, gracious in taking second place another year. Harry asks if he can call her next time he’s in Lexington; Beth says, “Alma would like that," then quickly adds, "so would I" with a smile.

Harry hums with the energy of an electric circuit, light and warm like home. Something you don’t realize is there until it’s gone. Beth never got his number (never asked).

Beth tucks the night away under “nights that were good” and lets her thoughts wander back to queens and checkmates. That is, until she’s touching down in June 1966 from Mexico City with glassy eyes, two suitcases, and a coffin.

“Hello.”

“Beth Harmon?”

“Yes.”

“This is Harry Beltik, from the Kentucky State Tournament.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title: Getaway Car, by Taylor Swift
> 
> cheers to the wonderful [thisismetrying](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisismetrying/pseuds/thisismetrying) for proofreading the romanticization of a character i know she doesn't like (also, all mistakes are my own) and reaching the end of this drabble collection!! even though i added one more than I intended and went over the word limits for 37.5% of these.
> 
> this is a headcanon i use to make it less weird that harry fixes his teeth for a girl he met "five years ago"

**Author's Note:**

> Story title: Back to My Bed by Elderbrook
> 
> Suggestions and criticisms always welcome :)


End file.
